


teal seas and bright fires

by tennisuhs



Category: TharnType the Series (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Coming Out, Fluff, Fluff and Smut, Getting Together, M/M, the smut is very mild like dont get too excited
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-18
Updated: 2020-01-18
Packaged: 2021-02-27 13:00:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 16,393
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22307581
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tennisuhs/pseuds/tennisuhs
Summary: It’s not an ideal job.Hell, there’s not ideal first job. Type’s perfect job would be in the field, bright lights against his face, sweat down his torso and studded shoes digging in the grass. The air slapping his cheeks as he runs, he bumps into someone, but the goal is right there.There’s no time and place for perfection. Perfection doesn’t exist.Until he steps into the store.
Relationships: Ae/Pete (Love by Chance), Tharn Kirigun/Type (TharnType)
Comments: 21
Kudos: 266





	teal seas and bright fires

**Author's Note:**

> few things to note:  
> \- tharn and type don't attend the same university  
> \- tum and tar's parents divorced after one year of marriage and they moved out  
> \- lhong never existed in this au  
> \- bow is daiting chaaim

It’s not an ideal job. 

Hell, there’s not ideal first job. Type’s perfect job would be in the field, bright lights against his face, sweat down his torso and studded shoes digging in the grass. The air slapping his cheeks as he runs, he bumps into someone, but the goal is right there.

Type sighs as he presses yet another sweater against his chest and folds it. It’s not as neatly done as it should be, but they are in a rush. It’s November, singles day is one breath away and black friday is around the corner. There’s no time and place for perfection. Perfection doesn’t exist.

Until _ he _ steps into the store.

“Type, we need you back in the storage room, presto.” The robotic voice of his work-mate shakes in his ear.

Fate is an asshole. He really is. And of course fate is a he, only something with those pronouns could ruin something so beautiful as the sight in front of him. 

Imagine it like a cult movie: the light behind his back, making the silhouette stand out even more against the marble floors and high end decorated store. It’s Zara, for fuck’s sake, everything is elegant and yet fake. 

So, Type stalls. Eyes stealing glances at the man who curiously pinches the hem of a blazer now, then tries it on over his clothes, then smiles at his own reflection. 

Only when Type looks down, does he realise he is smiling stupidly by himself as well. Crouching down to cover his flushed face seems the most rational decision at the given context. It is, indeed a very intelligent hiding place until his intercom rumbles. 

“Type, I said now!” Yells Techno again. 

“The sweater stand is a mess, I’ll be there in a minute.” Type argues back. 

And well, blatantly lies. That very stand has seen worst days, specially that time where a kid made it their mission to hide small toys between the fabric for his even younger sibling to find.

Mankind used to be hunters. Now, that’s an awful way to put it, but humans are attracted to movement, specially sudden movement. Specially when a very beautiful young man, around Type’s age, who is still sporting that burgundy blazer is crouching down as well. Hairs away from Type. 

Before the gasp is out, Type bites his lip. 

“Hey.” 

Well, shit.

Normally people compare deep voices to the ocean, to the depths of it. But, in Type’s memory, there’s only monsters and sea creatures down there. Instead, Type gets the image of crystal teal waters, with living corals dancing along the tides. 

“Hm?” Type answers, cleverly amidst his stupor. As he stands back up, he notices the costumer not following him.

“Do you think black would go nice with his blazer?” the customer asks, half smile on his face, eyebrows arched and fingers tapping at the lapel of said blazer.

It’s too much and not at all at the same time. It’s too much for a Type who is still struggling with his sexuality, and not at all considering the situation objectively. A customer asking for recommendations. Type’s lost count how many times he’s done that.

Yet, it’s too much.

“Haven’t you heard? Black goes with everything.” Type says and has the sudden urge to look away, as if the angle of the boy almost on his knees and Type looking from above was too intimate.

Also, because it’s not a very flattering angle for his non-existent double chin. 

Type’s stance relaxes as he sees the costumer standing up. It’s stupid and almost concerning how Type notices how the thigh muscles flex with the action. It’s more worrisome how he feels his hands shake at the realisation that, holy shit, that man is beyond attractive. Type is attracted.Type is  _ fucked _ .

Well, there goes the struggle.

The smile has spread on the man’s features. 

Type can’t really believe someone can own something so beautiful.

“Are you quoting Coco Chanel?”

“A Nazi sympathiser who only managed to make one decent collection throughout her life? No.” Type can’t help but roll his eyes, he’d done his research on fashion thank you very much, and Chanel isn’t particularly his favourite. “Just stating facts.”

The costumer snorts, and bends down to pick the black v-neck sweater. His thumbs rub on the soft wool material and Type really tries to suppress the thought of those fingers on his own cheeks. He really tries. Like, biting down on his lip until it hurts tries. 

But again, it’s just an attempt. 

No one in their right mind can ignore how tender those fingers look, tender and raw and Type needs to hold them.

Yeah, he realises then, Type needs to go.

“Well, if you don’t need anything else, I’ll take my leave.” he announces already walking backwards, and alright they might have been standing way too close for a professional, stranger/clerk encounter. 

“Oh yeah, that’s all, thanks uh.” The customer leans in to read the label on his shirt. “Type.”

The taller lets out a polite smile, the one reserved for professional situations or in this case when he wants to stop himself from asking for this man’s entire life story. And his number. And his hand in marriage.

“You get the ‘you are exactly my Type’ pick up line a lot, don’t you?” the man asks.

“If I got a dyme.”

“You could buy me ten more blazers.” The man laughs.

Yet, before Type can register the words, Techno’s voice pounds against his ear. “Type I swear to fucking God, if you don’t get your ass in here!”

“Sounds like you are busy.” The handsome customer states, eyes big and eyebrows raised. Smile is mellow now. Type hates how he notices that.

“Yeah, I gotta go.” with that sigh, Type skips backwards a couple of times, which is a dangerous endeavor in such crowded space. 

“Thanks again!”

When Type turns around as he reaches the storage room, just to get the last glance, the stranger is gone from his sight.

  
  
  
  
  
  


“What the actual fuck Tech-”

“Help.” 

Type’s entire body feels weak at the situation in hand. 

Even though it is an universally known fact that leaving Techno to his own devices for too long, is nothing short but a mistake, Type thought that perhaps, being this a different environment, Techno’s loud demeanor would somehow shift. But alas, one can’t change nature.

Therefore, when Type sees Techno’s butt far deep in a barrel-like dumpster, he sighs exasperated. A typical Tuesday afternoon. 

Yet, the surroundings are still pretty chaotic for a simple ass in a bucket accident: a shelf has been knocked over, and all its contents are now scattered on the floor. They were attrezzo for the christmas season, most of them plastic, some shattered due to the impact.

There went Techno’s salary for that month.

“I am not even going to ask.”

“Please don’t.” Techno begged, arms already lifting upwards, preparing to be released from the dumpster’s claws.

Once Techno is free and dusted off, Type turns to kneel and picks up the mess before someone else enters the storage room. As he does so, some shards stick to his fingers, making him let out a string of curses. 

“What took you so long, anyway?” Asks Techno from where he is putting the shelf back into place.

“Helping a customer.” Type shrugs, plucking out the small piece of glass from his finger and licking the blood.

“Gross, man.”

“I can just leave you to solve this disaster by yourself.” Type furrows his brows to his friend, voice filled with poison. 

Techno mimics zipping his mouth shut and throwing away the key. Which prompted the two friends to finish things up, making it as if nothing ever happened. One would be surprised by the amount of times they pulled out this scheme. Blame it on someone else, sticking together as one and moving on to the next adventure.

However, sometimes Type wished his friend learned not to touch things he was not supposed to.

“Why the christmas decorations? What did they ever do to you?” 

“Will you believe me if I told you a Santa Claus started talking out of nowhere?” Techno explained leaning against the wall, contemplating their work.

“And your instinctive reaction was to find the fucking thing instead of running?”. At his friend’s nod, Type shook his head, yet somehow not surprised at all. “You do realise you’d be the first do die in a horror movie.”

“It would be my second time being first.” 

That shit eating grin on Techno’s face managed to activate Type’s fight or flight response within milliseconds. 

“Don’t you dare.” Type threatened

“I’m not that predictable.” Techno replied, yet the smirk never faded. “Just like your erectile dysfunction.”

It was really an early christmas miracle how Techno survived Type’s headlock in that tiny storage room, on that very normal Tuesday afternoon.

  
  
  


The second time Handsome Tall Nice Fingers Customer shows up, Type is about to finish his shift. 

Clocking out for the week, Type takes one last stroll around the store to say bye to his workmates. He really doesn’t have to, but after a year, those people have become sort of his group of friends. The other group of friends outside the field, that is. The non-team friends. Even the store manager, Bow, who is two heads shorter than Type and a whole sparkling firework with legs, has become a close friend.

She is amazing at giving advice, Type has learned. 

It is actually while saying bye to her, walking without paying much attention, that Type bumps into something. Solid, of course, one can’t bump into any other state of matter. Yet, it is somehow supple, and warm. To be frank, at first Type thinks he’s outright bumped against a mattress. But, even if his brain cells are fried after the finals, he quickly throws the stupid thought out the window.

“Oops.” 

Coral reef.

Type had dreamt about it going for a scuba dive a few days back. 

He could feel the cold water against his arms, raising goosebumps as he swam across the natural reserve. Some fishes kissed the tips of his fingers, the coral caressed his ankles. He couldn’t walk properly with the equipment, specially with the foot gear. At such display, someone laughed behind him. 

Teal waters.

Then the same chuckling voice said something like-

“Hey again.”

Type turns, noticing how their shoulders are still touching. If he’s blushing, the other man doesn’t comment on it. Which Type is eternally thankful for, because he knows that indeed he is blushing. That or someone touched the store’s thermostat. An impossible feat on Bow’s watch.

“Hey.” Type manages to let out in his surprise.

“Leaving?” 

“Yeah.”

“Type plays soccer. So he has to leave early on Fridays for his practice.” Informs Bow, quickly. Even if he isn’t looking at her, Type can feel Bow’s cheshire cat-like smile from where it glowed behind his neck. 

“Soccer, huh?” 

Oh God.

Oh good Lord.

Oh Jesus fucking Christ.

The customer is checking him out. The hot piece of beefcake and endearing smiles, and attractive ass hands is looking at him. Scanning him with those golden eyes. Type shouldn’t be enjoying this half as much as he is.

A goner. That’s what Type is in this very moment. Strangely enough though, he doesn’t feel judged. He doesn’t feel the need to cover his hips, or step back, hug himself or look away. Well that last one comes almost naturally when their eyes meet. Yet, the only feeling that blooms in Type is that of want. 

He is desired.

Which is not a first. And most times not welcomed.

But wanting back, now that’s another story.

“Yeah, college soccer.” His four years of playing  _ and _ winning, have taught him to be proud of his accomplishments, even if they are in a non-professional team.

“Could have fooled me for a basketball player, but your hands are too pretty.” Bow squeals a few steps back. However, the customer doesn’t seem to pay her much mind. “Mine are fucked up after a decade of playing the drums.”

The drums.

Okay, um, to whoever the fuck thought this was a good prank to pull on Type, just let it be known: it is not. Because, it’s pathetic how his heart skips a beat at the thought of the boy sitting behind a drum set. Sweat down his temple, smile tickling his cheeks. 

A drummer.

Type feels faint.

“What’s the name of your band?” Bow asks, voice high pitched over the store’s music. 

“I’m not in a band, not anymore.” The shrug feels sad, remorseful. But Type doesn’t want to assume. 

“Ah.” Bow replies in a small nod. “Oh shit, I’m still on my shift, gotta bounce!” That’s all she says before sprinting back to her position behind the counter, where a surprised Pete is asking why the rush.

“And I’m late as hell, damn.” Type says as he springs back to life where he was caught staring at the boy. “See y-”

He stops.

What was he supposed to say to this perfect stranger? See you tomorrow? Next week, like a drama that thrives on cliffhangers? See you later? See you? At all? Was that situation even possible in this context?

Sure, they had met again. A glitch in fate, most certainly. Because this shit never happens. One doesn’t just encounter a living greek god (who plays the fucking drums), more than once. It’s just not realistic.

Hence why Type hesitates. Because he is an architect, he knows numbers, he knows reality.

This, however. This can’t be real.

The hand around his wrist, stilling him in place, the lips almost brushing his ear. The faint smell of cologne and coffee. 

“Name’s Tharn. Sorry I didn’t say it earlier.”

It’s just doesn’t feel real. 

Until almost midnight, when Type is turning around his bed, Champ’s snores in the background, and he feels the corals hugging his chest as the voice repeats “Tharn, Tharn, Tharn.” Like a mantra, like a lullaby.

With the fading, ghostly memory of those callused, tenderly raw fingers around his wrist. Type falls asleep.

  
  
  
  


“You are fucking ridiculous.”

“Thanks for the input, Tum.” Tharn says, more like sighs, as he lets the shirt in his hold down onto the pile. 

Lately he’s been thinking about buying one of those as seen on TV shirt folding things. They seem convenient enough, even if Tum told him time and time again they aren’t. “And besides you’ve been going to this store every single day for almost a week now, you are an expert in folding already.”

Which, fair point. Tharn was not going to fight the facts.

He had fallen.

Not in love, that was a big word. Furthermore, if there’s anyone who knows the weight behind such term, it was Tharn.

But his interest was peaked when those thick eyebrows furrowed the first time Type talked about Coco Chanel. A complete opposite from that gentle touch on the fabrics, a stern look of concentration, against the flushiest dustiest pink on his cheeks.

It was addictive, honestly. Riling Type up, making his world tilt on its axis and seeing him trying to regain balance. Such adrenaline rush, sweet and familiar, Tharn thought he couldn’t taste anymore. Not after Tar.

Yet, there he was, imagining black locks between his fingers. 

Curious. 

Tharn had always been curious. He had never shot anything or any opportunity dead before trying it out. For better and for worse. 

And that isn’t about to change any time soon. 

At least not because of Tharn’s volition. 

“Type’s not here today.” Bow says as she very casually walks past Tharn. Her hair on a high ponytail, face in an expression as if she holds the secrets of the universe. Or in this case, where Type is.

“Type?” Tum asks, tilting his head. 

“Saturdays are for the boys.” She continues after talking through the walkie talkie. Whoever Pond is, he’s in big trouble. 

Okay, and that was supposed to mean something, right? Who were the boys? His boyfriends? In that case it was time for the giving up plan. Tharn could do that, with a heavy chest and a pout, and a lot of ice cream. But he could.

“The boys!?” asked Tum again.

“Soccer match.”

And release. 

That stupid weight on his chest lifted. It’s incredible how subtly it settles between his ribs every single time he dares, every time he decides to step up to the challenge. 

It’s never that easy to get rid of it, Tharn has learned.

“That’s why he leaves early on Fridays, remember?” Bow finishes before twirling away.

Tharn can’t even get a greeting out before Tum is stepping towards him, in every way shape and form, except physical, fumming.

“A fucking guy!?” He yells way over the music. “I’m in a Zara store on a Saturday morning with you, because you have the hots for a guy?”

“C’mon.” Tharn mutters.

“Don’t come on me, Tharn. I know we’ve had our highs and lows, but couldn’t you tell me this much?” Indignant, Tum crosses his arms on his chest.

“I just didn’t want to…” Tharn shakes his head, this whole situation is suddenly ridiculous. “Can we talk about this somewhere else?” 

  
  
  


Tum eyes his food before digging in, he’s always held the knife weirdly, ever since they first started eating by themselves in elementary school. No one seemed to have accomplished correcting such habit.

“Is it really that big of a deal that you need to prep me with food?”

Tharn sighs, closing his eyes firmly shut. “I just feel bad.”

“For liking a boy?” Tum raises an eyebrow, only to roll his eyes at Tharn’s nod.

“Especially after Tar.” The name feels heavy in his tongue, like an unfulfilled promise. 

“Listen.” Now it’s Tum who leans back, gulping down his food. “It’s been years already. Tar is okay, like, not entirely but he’s getting better.”

“Thanks to you.”

“And you.” Tum quickly adds. “He deserves to be happy, we both agree on that. But you too, Tharn. You deserve happiness, you deserve love, and I know Tar is with me on this. No one wins if one of you is still miserable over what happened.”

Tharn is rubbing his temples, an awful attempt to stop the tears. He manages though. “I just don’t want to hurt Tar, not again.”

“You never did.” Reassures Tum. “He knows how devoted you were to him, and I can see clear as day how important you guys still are for each other.” 

Looking at his hands, Tharn sees the pink spots where he had been fidgeting with his fingertips. “I just...Something pulls me to him.”

“Type?” At Tharn’s nod, Tum hums. “Then go for it. Again, if Tar ever knows he’s the reason you are holding yourself back, he’ll be extremely pissed.”

“He’s an angel.” Finally, Tharn digs into his coldening food. 

Tum smilies through a mouthful of food, as if the compliment has been aimed at him. 

After settling into a comfortable silence, it’s Tum once more that speaks, a soft comment left in the afternoon sun. “Wait, since when are you vegan?”

  
  
  
  


Type is one stupid dumb boy.

He is.

Even if his GPA says otherwise. Which surprised no one more than it surprised himself when he received the honors scholarship for such prestigious college. He only had to put a little more effort and boom, all degree was almost over. 

Like a whim. Like he almost didn’t have time to hold onto it. The memories, the stress, the anxiety. They all seemed so far away in the horizon. 

It was a smooth sail so far. 

However, Type is a big dummy head.

So he sprains his ankle on the match.

Due to the cold weather, ice forming in the past night’s rain formed on the grass. Normally, and when fate was on their side, the studs on their boots would have prevented any accident. Ice wasn’t a common occurrence in a tropical climate, but it was November and Monsoon was a bitch. 

So after a harsh jump trying to avoid the rival’s legs, Type couldn’t have landed in a worst way. The snapping sound shatters through him, and the pain is so acute he can't even feel it. It is all over him, and nowhere at once.

It is so very sudden, Type doesn’t even notice his team mates picking him up and carrying him to the locker room. The light dimmed, the fast November sun rushing through the noon. A lingering smell of humidity and sweat clings through the air and Techno is laying him on one of the worn out benches, reassuring words streaming from his mouth.

“It’s not broken.” Says a voice around them.

Fuck. It feels broken. If this is just a sprain, then Type doesn’t want to even begin to start imagine what tearing bone feels like. 

A shudder shakes him from limb to limb. 

“We are taking you to the hospital, alright man?” Techno asks as if Type has any other choice. 

However, he nods and tries to calm his breathing. It does nothing for the pain, but at least he doesn’t feel like he’s going to die. He can’t die, he hasn’t asked for Tharn’s phone number yet.

A broken chuckle rips through his dry throat, of course his brain would go there in such critical moment. Shaking his head at his own stupidity, Type notices Champ stilling him softly. Having replaced the team captain barely a minute ago, he is diligently wiping his sweat away.

Type refuses to be delirious. It’s not that painful. Yet, his brain loves the idea of having a drug-less trip, so it wonders. 

Back to elementary school, to that guy, the class president (yes, they had class presidents at such age, Type’s school was that lame). He was tall, and he had a great smile, and he was always partnering with Type. He wonders what that guy is doing now. 

Or that girl with dyed hair, blue then pink, then purple, then black. Type hopes she got into a good dance school.

He thinks about all the what-ifs, all the times he felt that spark. Wondering if they have any nexus in common, anything relating each other. After what feel like hours, ceiling lights changing from worn out locker room ones, to ambulance ones, to hospital ones; Type’s exhausted brain can only come up with one common denominator.

Himself.

There’s nothing his crushes had in common other than Type fancied them.

As the doctor proceeds to tell Type everything will be okay, he is just shocked and that he should rest, the patient closes his eyes. That’s gotta be the worst way and place possible to have a sexuality awakening.

Surrendering, Type mumbles out a groggy thanks at the doctor. 

And sinks into dreams of teal waters. 

  
  
  
  


If anyone is monitoring or tracking Tharn’s movements, they might either think the guy is really into fashion, or needs a new winter closet. Or he is simply a nutcase. 

Regardless, there he stands, under the pounding bass of a song that shouldn’t be allowed to be played anywhere before ten in the evening; mean mannequins blankly staring him down as he peeks not-so-subtly from behind the racks. 

This is ridiculous. Tum was right. However, he’s done worst, right? He bottomed for fuck’s sake. Okay, that wasn’t the worst. Maybe the whole buying flowers without knowing if the other was allergic made the top of the list. This was just, coincidence.

No. Twice is coincidence. 

This was pure desperation. 

Tharn sighs as he crouches by a fake plant, hugging his knees, damning time and space for not giving him the chance to ask for Type’s phone number. Even though, that would have probably put Type on the spot, since under contract, he couldn’t refuse a client.

On the other hand, something told Tharn that Type would definitely turn down a client without hesitation. Blunt and quick-witted. Thinking about the consequences after rash words were out.

“But, why does he gotta be so cute?”

“The plant won’t answer you, I really hope you know that.” Bow talks from above him, arms crossed. “I mean, you get a pass because you are cute, but that’s crazy behaviour.”

“Sorry.” Tharn apologizes and stands up.

“Her name is Ophelia.” Bow says with a nodding at the plant. She softens, her smile complice. “And I’m assuming you haven’t heard.”

Taking Tharn’s tilted head and almost pout as an answer, Bow continues. “Type sprained his ankle last Saturday, like an idiot.” There is worry behind her words, even if filtered by annoyance. “Now Pond is working his shifts and I’m just about to lose it.”

Embarrassingly, Tharn takes two seconds too long to react, but when he does, the pants corner of the store becomes an interrogation room. “Wait, what do you mean sprained? Is he okay? Where is he?”

“Sprained as in, this.” Bow tries to imitate the gesture of a bent ankle with her wrist. “He is alright, it’s gonna take two to three weeks to fully heal, though.” She is counting the answers so she doesn’t skip any. “And he is at home.”

Oh.

Yeah that makes sense, resolves Tharn internally. That’s where he should be, at home, being taken care off by his family, people who he trusts. Definitely not by a guy who happened to ask for clothing advice.

“Here, let me give you his phone number.”

“Oh no, that’s fine I don’t want to intrude.”

“Nonsense!” Yells Bow over the music, hand moving like she’s swatting a fly. “I bet my right hand he’ll be more than glad if you intrude.” 

“But-”

“I said, I bet my right hand he’ll be more than glad if you call him. And I really like my hand, I hold my girlfriend’s hand with it.” As she speaks, she extends the aforementioned hand.

Defeated, Tharn gives her the phone after unlocking it. 

“That wasn’t so hard, was it? Now go get your man.” 

With a slap on his shoulder, which she almost has to jump to reach, Bow skips away, while yelling at Pond over the inter-com, her tone cheery as she threatens her co-worker.

Tharn blinks once. Then he realises he’s been standing there, blinking at nothing for half a minute. The phone has long since self-locked again, but when Tharn opens it, sure enough, a new number and contact has been added to his phone. It glows on his screen like those pirate chest treasures from the cartoons.

However, insecurity is still well rooted in his chest. 

  
  
  
  


The week flies by and Tharn doesn’t call Type. Not a message, nothing.

Every time he tries, though, he deletes it halfway or simply cancels the voice note. Oh, yeah, his drunk before midnight self thought sending a voice note was a way better idea. Thank God he trembles when he’s not sober and his thumb had slipped.

Many might think that Tharn is forward, and don’t get him wrong, he definitely is. He knows what he wants and isn’t afraid to say it, and go for it. Eventually. Believing in a gradual sequence of events, Tharn has his own way of chasing after his dreams. One step at a time towards the right direction was the way to go. Life had taught him so. 

After all, he was in a band which managed to stay booked more weekends than not, and he wasn’t even 25 years old. 

However this- this was a whole other ordeal. 

Tharn is starting again, moving on, giving himself another chance. Like the song, Tharn is giving love another chance. 

Hence why the hard part here is the beginning. The first interaction, or at least the first contact with intent. The first move, the first message or call. Now, these are monumental points of a relationship. 

Someone knocks on the door of his apartment, and Tharn realises it’s already night time.

Tar emerges from behind the door, wide doey eyes and stern expression. His voice melodic and soft when he speaks “Will it kill you to answer your phone for once?” yet his words are rough. A living contradiction.

“What-”

“We need to talk.” Tarn says, now a little more exasperated and less mad. 

He is holding up a bag of a fast food restaurant by his face and Tharn only makes him wait a beat before he steps aside, letting Tar in. 

Although the entire attitude is definitely due to Tum, teaching him how to express the harshest feelings without fearing confrontation, Tar is still this adorable young man who sits on the couch hands on his lap. Tum would have sprawled himself on it, barely leaving any space for Tharn himself.

The food is set on the coffee table as Tharn sits at a respectful distance, still, not meeting Tar’s eyes. 

“I said we need to talk not that I’m going to burn your house down.” Tar protests, and as a peace offering, he gives Tharn his food.

“Thanks, I’ll pay you back.” Tharn is set in stone to lower his gaze, as he unwraps the burger. 

“Tum told me.” Tar says after a long pause. He chooses to talk with a mouthful of food, which is nothing short but adorable. Also a tad gross. “And that you are vegan too.”

“Oh.” Tharn says. Then gasps. And then chokes. It’s when Tar is slapping his back that Tharn manages another. “Oh.”

Of course Tum would snitch on him like that. It is treason and Tharn is going to make him pay. Maybe this time Tharn will dye Tum’s hair while he sleeps.

Once incorporated back against the couch, Tar lets out a sigh. “You are so dramatic.” But, he is smiling, so Tharn considers it a victory.

There will always be this part of his heart, this fiber within the muscle, that will beat differently for the younger. Devotion is a long wicked candle, and it’s scent still lingering within Tharn. Even though Tar had long blown the flame away. 

Tar is now fully facing him, and Tharn can’t find it in himself to avoid him any longer.

“Tharn,” he starts, voice secure. “I am glad you still have me in your thoughts. And you’re also very important to me. But we deserve better.” After a pause he stumbles. That shyness from a few years back resurfering. “Not that we weren’t good for each other, it was just not meant to be.”

With a heavy heart and a lump in his throat, Tharn has to agree. Their relationship was never a smooth sail, issues kept popping up. They could fight anything together in the beginning, but ivy grew between the cracks of their relationship. It was a matter of time before they got worn out.

“And that’s okay. Listen, I value you a lot, I’d rather have you as a friend than not have you at all.”

“Yeah, you said that when we broke up.”

“Tharn.” Tar warned. But his voice was back to usual as he continued. “All I’m saying is that never veto yourself for my sake. Go out there, find love again. You deserve to be happy with someone, and so do I. Don’t you think?” 

Tar is basically repeating what Tum said, but this isn’t a blind judgment based on Tum’s knowledge of his not-anymore-brother’s psyche. This is Tar himself, showing Tharn he is healing. He really is.

Tharn nods, and he can’t stop himself. He really can’t. His hand finds the top of Tar’s head and pats it. A spark burns his heart as it remembers that this is enough. Enough to show Tar how proud he is of his progress, how important this bundle of joy is to Tharn. 

Yeah. They  _ do  _ deserve happiness.

“I just don’t want to hurt you again.”

“You are hurting me by holding yourself back.” It’s said in a heartbeat. “We need to move on, Tharn.”

Suddenly Tharn isn’t hungry anymore, that’s why he takes the biggest bite of his hamburger and gulps it down with a long sip of his sprite. His eyebrows furrow with the effort. The heavy lump of food hurts on its way down, but once it disappears, Tharn realises so has his worry.

At least those worries concerning Tar. Because, he is right here, he is okay, he is going to be okay. And he is going to let Tharn see him become whole again. 

This is enough.

Tharn smiles. “Thank you.”

“Alright, now that all the emo hours are over.” Tar scoots closer, wiggling his eyebrows, grinning. “Who is he?”

  
  
  


“What the fuck?” A groggy pixelated face moves in Tar’s phone screen. “What is going o-”

“Okay so.” Tar interrumpts. “Tell him, he is wrong.” 

The face now is close enough to boop Tharn’s nose from the other side of the screen. He shakes his head and tries not to giggle. 

Tharn might be drunk, after all.

“Gladly. Tharn you are wrong.” Tum says smugly, even though his eyes can’t seem to stay open for longer than two seconds.

That is straight up outrageous. So Tharn yells. “You don’t even know what we are talking about!”

“Tharn has Type’s phone number, but he won’t call him or text him!” Tar is stomping his feet as he speaks, like a kid throwing a tantrum.

“Coward.” Yawns Tum on the other line.

“But what if I’m bothering him! He’s injured, he needs peace and calm!”

“And lots of kisses and hugs and guess what? You can provide that!” Tar argues back for the nth time that night. 

“We don’t know each other that well!” Tharn is slurring through his mental process, the words feel foreign in his mouth. So he takes another shot.

“Guys, guys!” Tum is the one raising his voice now. “Let’s all make a deal: Tharn, you are going to call Type on monday and that’s final.”

“But-”

“I am not finished, shut up, thank you.” Tum points out, now clearly annoyed as he is not getting his beauty sleep. “And Tar, you are not going to call me again after midnight, unless you are in serious danger.”

“But I am right!”

“I know baby, but you are also drunk.”

And with that established, Tar pouts as he turns the facetime off and has a private conversation with Tum. Tharn laughs at their friends and decides to give them some space as he wobbly reaches for his bedroom. 

“You are taking the couch!” Tharn yells. If Tar protests, he can’t hear him, as he is currently falling face first against his pillow.

  
  
  
  


Rooming with Champ isn’t always a path of roses, to say something. Even if Type can ignore the snores by putting on his headphones, or tolerate the sudden beeping of their AC turning on; there are things Type is most infuriated by.

Like how good Champ is at Mario Kart. He has to be cheating, there is no doubt in his mind.

After three rematches, dozens of snack wrappers on the floor and Techno almost sobbing into the pillow he is clutching, Type lays on the bed. Well, he’s been sitting on it for the past days anyways. 

Closing his eyes, he can only see the digital cars speeding through video game tracks behind his eyelids. Perhaps it’s time to call it a night. 

Type’s about to say something when a pillow smacks against his tummy, making him lean on his elbows again. Eyebrows furrowed and death glare ready for whoever dared to commit such crime.

It’s Champ. The curly haired boy really is asking for trouble from his limping friend, isn’t he?

“You good?” Champ asks instead, helping his friend sit upright. “Bathroom break?”

Oh, yeah, that’s the worst thing about having a sprained ankle, alright. The bathroom. Such simple, daily task turned into shameful torture. Champ having to hold him upright as Type pees is the worst thing right next to him waiting on the other side of the shower just in case.

Champ is a great friend. But, no one will deny Type, those things are beyond embarrassing. Even more so for Type, proud of his independence and self-sufficiency. Even though he is not so proud of the thought that he’d let Tharn take care of him. He’d like to watch Tharn helping him up, tying the bag around his cast and placing an arm around his waist as Type hops into the bathroom.

“Why are you blushing? Was my proposal that scandalous?” Champ teases, poking Type’s middle.

He yelps and smacks his friend for all his worth. The reaction is a shadow of what Type expected, but it sure makes Techno and Champ laugh.

Realisation doesn’t come with big explosions, or the skies parting for the rays of sun to filter through. Realisation comes at the sight of his biggest friends sitting by his bed, attentive yet playful. Always cheerful and always there. There. For him.

If there’s always been something like home away from home, his best friends were it. So much has happened between them, so many memories and stories. It feels like he was betraying such trust by not being completely open with them.

Type inhales deeply. It’s only fair he gives something in return.

“Guys, I-I gotta tell you something.”

The look Techno and Champ share holds tens of silent conversations, but Type is too overwhelmed by the weight of the situation to care. He has to do this. It’s been a long time coming.

His friends are a tad closer, and Type closes his eyes, wills his mouth to speak. “What if I told you, I like men?”

Two seconds into the silence, Type opens his eyes. Terror is an understatement for what his expression displays.

“Uh.” That’s Techno. Of course it is. No man has hated awkward silences more than him. “I’d say if you are still down to beat Champ’s ass at Mario Kart.”

It’s exasperating, really. Type claps his tongue against the roof of his mouth. “I’m serious.”

“So are we.” That one is Champ, fists against the mattress to sit up closer to his friend. “Regardless of who you like, we are still your friends.”

Techno is nodding furiously, two jerks away from snapping his neck, he adds. “Like, we might not know what’s going on in your rusty old nogen.” He says pointing at his own forehead. “But, let it go man, just go get that guy or girl or whoever. We are right behind you.”

He finishes his little speech with his fist hitting his own chest. That’s ought to hurt. 

“As wingmen!” Champ is quick to clarify. “Not to like scare them away or anything.”

“No, no I meant with like big ‘he is a virgin’ banners. Just to warn them.” Before he finishes his words, Type has thrown the aforementioned pillow to his face. “What? I could lend you my shirt!”

“I swear to God.” Type mutters as he chases Techno off of the bed as best as his capacity. 

Techno thanks whoever might be listening that his friend can’t walk on his own as he collects his things off of the floor, dancing around to put on his jacket and make his way to their door. 

“Seriously though, go get ‘em, tiger.” And the door slams shut before the pillow makes another departure, destination: Techno’s balls.

  
  
  
  


It’s while Type is drying off his hair that Champ pulls up his chair, sitting with the backrest pressed against his chest. That’s such a dad move and Type knows better than to trust the gentleness in his friends gestures.

“What?” Type asks, already defensive.

“Techno had a point.” Champ simply states, easy smile never fading. “You can tell us anything, let it go, lay it on us. Don’t ever think we’ll judge you.”

“Man stop, you are being too sappy.” Type complains, attempting to hit his friend with the towel. He’s all about that tough love lately. 

“Well I mean if you were into like, some weird ass shit, we’d probably talk some sense into you. But other than that, you can tell us, alright man?”

Type nods, a petulant affirmative sound coming from his lips. This is the best he can do when faced with emotions. Something in his heart though, tickles him to do more. To be more open. Champ is paving the way for Type to speak up. Maybe now’s the time.

“It’s just…” Type starts. Breaks eye contact. Yeah, that’s way easier. “I never really paid much attention to my sexuality? If that makes sense? I just figured I liked girls, because that’s how it’s supposed to be.”

Champ leaned against the chair, nodding. 

“But,” Type continued. “After hitting puberty, you know, hormones, right? So I never really paid too much attention to boys. Because, teenage boys back then were, well... you know.”

“I do. I was one.” 

“Exactly. So if I did find a man attractive I’d just blame it on the age difference, and my brain would go with the ‘oh I want to be like him!’ kind of mindset.” Type is blabbering, he knows he is. However, time has ticked out. There’s no more running away, no more hiding the thoughts away.

You know what they say, when you speak your thoughts at loud, you are speaking them into existence. Which is terrifying.

So Type takes a breather, closes his eyes. He sees a wrinkled eye smile. And blue waters.

“Take your time, man.” Reassures Champ.

“I don’t know when it started, really.” Type sighs out. “But, I started taking interest in guys. I have never acted on it, but I-I want to try.”

“Do you think it’s for real? Like this isn’t just your virgin mind playing games on you?”

Type finds himself tracing the pattern of his comforter, pretending he isn’t feeling the itch behind his cast and the lump in his throat. Countless nights has he spent asking himself the same thing. Questioning his attraction as nothing but a fling, as the euphoria of trying things out. 

But one eventful dream, with scuba diving had been his tipping point.

So, Type shakes his head. 

“Don’t laugh.”

“I won’t.” it doesn’t even take a beat for Champ to reply.

“When I think of...of him, I lose breath.” Type confesses. “It’s like I’m drowning, I am suffocating. And yet, I have never felt more alive. Like, I don’t need fucking air anymore. It’s overwhelming.”

There’s a pause. Champ’s chair creaks when he moves. Type can’t look up, still processing the words he’s just let out. They are in the waves of the air, invisible but tangible. Cheesy but real.

“An architect and a poet.” Champ lets out an airy laugh. “You are such a catch, Type.”

As the curly man comes closer, Type readjusts his position, expecting. Champ sits beside him like a few hours ago, this time however, Type only realises he’s being hugged when the arms around him tighten.

“Thanks for telling me, man.” Champ says parting. “I really hope you score a date with this guy.”

Type scoffs and squats the offending Champ had hovering over his head. He had just washed his hair, for fuck’s sake. 

  
  
  
  


Tharn doesn’t call Type on Monday.

In fact, he doesn’t call him at all. 

What’s he supposed to say anyway? Hey, I am that customer you have run into a couple of times, I think you are a hot piece of boy and I’d like to help you recover, oh yeah I know you are injured let me kiss it better?

That is absolutely foul. 

However, what’s even more frustrating is a very angry looking Tar staring at him while the band pack their things after rehearsing. To make the picture more clear: Tar is sitting crossed legged, arms folded on his chest and cheeks slightly puffed. His eyes are squinting at Tharn. Tum has taken ten pictures of him already. Admittedly, it’s fucking adorable.

But it works. 

It always does.

Tharn is standing in the middle of the street, in front of the studio they rent to practice. The night is hugging in a veil of darkness and orange lit street lights. The shadows casting in the bushes nearby dance with the breeze, and the moon is peeking through the small inoffensive clouds.

What does he have to lose?

Therefor, Tharn never calls Type. He does an even more idiotic thing instead. But, he is a musician, spoken words are his love language.

Tharn opens the messaging app, which already features Type’s number in its contact list. Fucking great, nice move, fate. 

He taps on it. God, he is nervous. His pulse doesn’t tremble this time, if it did, he wouldn’t be a drummer. Yet he feels like he is shaking all over. It might be the approaching winter.

Fuck it.

He taps the mic button. “Hey, uh it’s me, Tharn. Sorry if this comes up like, supper invasive or out of nowhere. I went to the store the other day and Bow told me you were injured. I really hope you are doing better, if you need anything just let me know. Uh, yeah, sorry this was really impulsive. See you around I guess?”

He lets go of the button. It’s a matter of sliding his thumb to cancel the message

“I am so proud of you!” Yells a high pitched voice as a weight jumps on his back.

And Tharn thumb is no longer on his screen.

With horror, Tharn observes his voice message get delivered, without any option to delete it permanently without Type noticing. 

“Oh shit, sorry did I hurt you?” Tar says as he crouches next to Tharn, who is positively losing his mind.

Tharns hands are tangled in his hair, one still clutching the phone for dear life. Eyes shot open and mouth agape. If Tar or Tum say anything, his ears don’t catch it over the sound of his own heartbeat going bonkers inside his ribcage.

“What have I done?”

  
  
  
  
  
  
  


“He stuttered!” Techno is about to break every glass surface and object in the vicinity. “Type he fucking likes you! Oh my God, you are getting some dick! Type! Listen!”

Waving the screen over Type’s face doesn’t help the current state of shock the taller is going through, in the slightest. If anything, it only makes him bury his face in his hands even more. Type is not crying. He didn’t cry when he sprained his ankle, he didn’t cry when he got rejected, he isn’t crying because Tharn is the cutest person on Earth.

Rather, Type is blushing. Madly.

“Hey! Techno why are you bullying Type!” comes from a very close distance, the unmistakable voice of their junior. 

“Can, calm your tits, he is just going through it.” Techno shushes the younger off, deciding to cut the fun for now, having some regard for Type’s sanity. 

As he returns the locked phone to its owner, Techno claps a hand on Type’s back.

“Going through what?”

“Gay panic.”

It’s freakishly insane how fast Type turns to his friend, with the most furious look in his eyes, which coupled with his blush, makes him look like he is about to engage in a murderous spree. 

“Wait, Type.” Techno tries to calm the other down.

Type says nothing more, grabbing his phone and bumping into Can as he turns to leave, still clumsy with his crutches. The proximity helps Can in chasing him. Grabbing him by the shirt.

“Dude, like senior Type whatever the honorifics are.” Can shrugs. “It’s cool.” Can finishes and Type gives him a quick glance. “I’m dating a boy too. Tin? The stuck up asshole?”

“Him? Why  _ him _ ?” Demands Techno, also standing up. They are making such a scene and Type wants out.

“Not the point.” Can dismisses Techno, returning to Type who has his eyes locked on the ground. “Like, I get how you are feeling. I do, I was the same as you bef-”

“No.” Type grunts out. “You don’t ‘get’ how I’m feeling, Can. I am not ashamed of liking a boy. So cut that out.” Type finally visibly relaxes. “It’s just that, geez...”

“You really like him, huh?” Can asks, letting go. “Look, all I’m saying is that no one is laughing at you for having a crush. We’ve all been there, bro.” Can shrugs, smiling up to Type when he turns to face him. 

“That’s what I was trying to say!” pleads Techno who is pulling the same guilty face as he did when he broke his mum’s vase in grade ten. “It’s just fun to tease you, but I’ll stop if it bothers you.”

Type nods. It’s a long time coming that he learns how to manage his reactions, and in all fairness, he was doing fine. He just never expected to fall so fast and deep. It’s almost funny how quickly Tharn has become his biggest weakness.

Sitting down again, now joined by Can, Type fills the younger in the situation, between stuttering and a lot of nervous hairbrushing. It’s only when Can pokes Type’s cheek that he realises he’s been smiling.

“Then answer him.” Can concludes, leaning on the empty chair Type is using to lay his injured leg. “One thing we can’t do for you, is tell you what to say to your man.”

“Yeah, we are no Garbanzo de Cognac.” Techno says leaning against his seat, pride in his tone.

“Cyrano de Bergerac.” Corrects Can rolling his eyes. That Tin guy has really rubbed off on the younger. 

Type nods, nails digging in the palm of his hand as he tries to gather his thoughts. The first of them being that, since Tharn had had the balls to go for a voice message, it’s only fair he does the same. He plugs his headphones.

“Oh here we go.” murmurs excitedly Techno, earning an annoyed look from the other too.

Type closes his eyes.

Teal blue.

“Hey.”

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


“And done!” Bow announces excitedly. 

The store isn’t that busy, and Type kind of wants to thank his injury for making him skip singles day and perhaps also black Friday. Something didn’t click in his mind that these two dates are way too close to his finals, when he applied for the job. But so did half his friends. All a bunch of idiots.

It could be easy to assume that, given his free time, Type has had enough time to do his readings and prepare for his finals. Life is never easy, and of course he hasn’t. He’s found comfort in movies that never, under no circumstance would he admit were romantic comedies. And visits from his worried mom.

And okay, also a great deal of Tharn.

“You really didn’t need to come all the way here to talk about your sick days, you know.” Bow says, and by her tone, Type knows she’s already put two and two together. “Are you expecting someone?”

“Uh, not really? Why would you th-”

“Sorry! I am not too late am I?”

  
  
  
  


It’s like the drop of a rollercoaster: sitting in a what is apparently an unsteady train, metal rails underneath, shaking through out the ride. After an agonizing long upslide, the heart rate is raising, ready for the upcoming adrenaline. Yet, when it comes, the instinct triggered by the threat of falling or potential harm, starts yelling at the back of your head. 

Just like that. Tharn is exshastic to see Type again. To see his silky black hair, a bit longer than what he remember, those bushy eyebrows. Soft arms and adorable cheeks. Type looks good, he looks amazing, he looks well rested and fed which is a relief. When he traces his gaze down, however, Tharn’s instinct kicks in.

Type’s still walking on crutches, his whole pose a little curved, leg still sporting a white wrapping with lots of doodles and words decorating it with color. Tharn smiles at the amount of love Type has been receiving, wonders for the smallest brink of a second, if he is allowed to give him some of his own as well.

“No, I’ve just arrived.” Comes from Type, who is really trying to conceal his struggle with his crutches.

He’s adorable. 

“Oh, great uh,” Tharn closes his mouth, afraid he’ll keep stuttering. Nodding, he gives it another chance. “I was thinking we could go for a coffee? If you are feeling like it?”

That’s just no not like him. Tharn is decided, he is always ready, straightforward and direct. But the delicate state of Type is making him retaliate, refuse his normal attitude in favour of not scaring him away.

And, it’s not working.

Type looks more insure than before.

Tharn takes a mental deep breath. A pause. The store smells like a very expensive cologne. It’s all over and around yet it is shallow, never absorbing through his clothes.

“C’mon, there’s super cool place just around the corner.” A comfortable smile sits on his lips, and yeah, Tharn is back. “I can give you a piggyback ride.” He offers leaning in.

It’s weird to be at the same eye level as Type, but he is rather enjoying the change.

Type scoffs, looking away. “I’d like to see you try.”

The loud music barely manages to muffle Type’s yelps when Tharn fakes going to grab him bridal style in the middle of the store. Bow is half scolding them, half freaking out in the most excited way. But, she is full on pushing them out of the store.

“You fucking sick lovebirds!” She keeps repeating with a grin in her face. “I don’t want to see you two again until Type is fully recovered. Scatter!”

That they don’t do. Instead they go together to the café Tharn suggested. This boy helping Type walk through the crowd, hand on Type’s back, soft and comforting. Tharn uses this hand to guide him, tapping Type softly whenever they have to round a corner, or rubbing every now and then when the boy seems to grow tired of the clutches.

Tharn had to stop himself from going through with his piggyback ride plan twice. Thankfully, the café is close enough.

Once they arrive Tharn greets the boy behind the counter, he gives him a wave and a sweet smile, then he lands on Type. “Oh dear.” He mutters as he comes out from her spot to help them arrange a table.

After pillowing the ankle on a chair, the boy pulls out a small notepad to take their orders. “Tharn, a lemonade special with berries and lot of bubbles.” He says without even writing anything down. “And, you uh.”

“Type.” Tharn introduces quickly. “This is Ae, my friend and junior.” 

“A pleasure.” Ae says extending his hand. The squeeze is just rightfully respectful, just like the boy himself. He looks rather serious and mature for someone with the softest cheeks Type has ever seen. “What can I get for you?”

“Just a latte, thanks.” 

“Oh and do you have some of the custard cheesecake?” Tharn adds before Ae can leave.

“I always save a couple of slices for you and Pete.” Ae smiles. “Two slices?”

Tharn feels somewhat torn, not liking putting Ae in this position where he has to choose between customers and his boyfriend. “Just one, I really want Type to try it.” 

Ae nods one last time, and with one soft smile he’s gone.

And, there it comes: awkwardness.

Despicable, horrible awkwardness. It will be adorable to go back to this moment, a few years down the line, for sure. But, right now, Tharn opts for letting the silence fall just for a few more moments, before breaking it.

“You know, I really wanted to call you.” That seems to peak Type’s interest, raising his eyebrows. “I was just afraid I would be, I don’t know bothering or something.”

“How considerate.” Type scoffs. “It’s cool though, most people text.”

“Do I look like most people to you?” Tharn teases.

“I wouldn’t go on a date with most people, if that says anything.”

It does say a lot, in fact. Tharn bites down on a mischievous grin as he leans back on the booth he has claimed for himself. His eyes never quite leave Type, who is adamant in returning the eye contact. Instead he seems to be playing with his fingers.

Taking a curious peek, Tharn sees Type is picking on the dead skin from using his clutches. Probably because it’s only a couple of weeks thing, the boy hasn’t bothered in buying gloves. Tharn clicks his tongue against the roof of his mouth and turns to his bag. As he does so, he can see Type perk up from the corner of his eyes.

“Give me your hands.” Tharn tells Type when he raises again after finding what he was looking for, but never showing it to the other.

“Why?” 

“And close your eyes.”

“Not until you tell me why.” Type protests and crosses his arms, to metaphorically put even more distance between his hands and Tharn. 

“Trust me.” Tharn offers again, extending his hand and rolling his eyes.

“You do realise we barely know each other, right?” 

“I’m paying for the food and coffees, can you please give me your hands?” Tharn retorts one last time, his voice getting a small brink strained with frustration. 

The sigh Type lets out has the equal amount of stress, but with one last side look at nothing, he gives in. 

Lean hands, big in Tharn’s grasp, land on his extended palm. Their skin tones aren’t that different, but Tharn lets himself have a spark of a moment to admire the golden undertone of the other. Type’s skin glows from within, his warmth is everlasting and it surrounds everyone he deems worthy.

Tharn can’t help caress his knuckles as he softly adds. “Now close your eyes.” it’s a half whisper, really.

Turning the hands so the palm faces upwards, Tharn can clearly see the dead skin shreds on the gaps of Type’s fingers. Which Tharn can’t wait to fill with his own. Instead he places his other hand on top, palm facing palm.

And Type yelps, taking his hands away.

“Gross! What the fuck?” Type’s voice is way louder for the café, making the customer’s turn their heads at the couple.

“It’s just some hand cream, relax.” Tharn says trying not to laugh,and failing.

“Why the fuck do you carry hand cream around?” Type asks, now quieter and spreading the cream on his tormented fingers.

“I’m a musician.”

“I know. And that explains it, how?” The curiosity in Type’s eyes completely destroys the accusative front his voice is trying to put up.

“If I play for long enough I start to sweat.” He begins, using his aforementioned hands to further explain his point. “If I sweat the friction between my skin and the drumsticks is too raw. The wood of the drumsticks can hurt my fingers. If I hurt my fingers I can’t play the drums. I’m a musician. If I play for long eno-”

“Okay, okay I got it!” Type gestures for Tharn to cut it out, shifting in his seat as his face goes from annoyance to amused. “Thank you.”

Tharn all but fake salutes him and looks at the sudden movement on their right. Ae is in their field of vision with their order. He places it diligently in front of the boys, but before leaving his frowns. “Can you please watch your voice? I really don’t want to kick you out on your date.”

“You wouldn’t kick your favourite senior out, right?” Tharn says as he looks up with a very exaggerated puppy eyes face. “And his lovely date?”

For some miracle of nature, Type follows suit and pouts at the younger. It is immensely more fun to tease people if Type plays along, Tharn concludes. Stealing a glance at the other before watching Ae stammer and walk off, Tharn notices how Type is still spreading the hand cream on his palms.

“He’s a nice kid.” Tharn comments before turning to the food. Handing Type the fork. “Dig in. This is like my fave cake in the city.”

Type meets his eyes, glowing and filled with life. Tharn thinks Type is a lit bonfire, it's the fire between the cracks of the lodges, the controlled chaos of a campfire. Red, orange he kindles without burning. He burns without destroying. 

It’s at Type’s reaction to the cake that makes Tharn smile so wide, his cheeks will feel it for weeks. “It’s good, isn’t it?”

Another nod, and Tharn can’t handle it anymore. Every since he was born, Tharn was a curious being. Everything that caught his eyes, he had to touch. There was something shamefully selfish about that notion, but also something to say about how he perceives the world. Spoken words are his love language, but touching is his reality.

So, he holds Type’s free hand. Barely cupping his knuckles with his hand. 

Type slows his munching, and the next piece he cuts, he lets it hover before Tharn’s face. Scoffing at the tenderness of the act, Tharn looks at Type’s lit eyes before opening his mouth. 

He’s had countless slices of that custard cheesecake, but none have been this sweet.

  
  
  
  


October pains, November rains. Or something like that, Tharn hasn’t really have time to catch up on his poetry to remember how the quote goes. However, he sure does damn whoever decided to let the rain of the decade pour the second the step out of the café. 

Tharn wasn’t really planning on much else for the date. It was supposed to be a try-out thing to see if they truly were compatible, and that if whatever they might have was even worth the shot. 

To that, Tharn would say yes. Half the slice of cake and coffee in, Type has changed his entire demeanor. From interlocking their fingers, to giving Tharn the softest smile he has ever laid his eyes on. It’s like he had finally opened the dams for Type to just let go, a conversation so fluid and natural, streaming between them like they knew each other from before.

If Tharn was anything like Tar, he would believe this is fate’s will, tying a red ribbon around their pinkies and leading them to one another. However, Tharn is nothing like Tar, and he just thinks that they are very compatible.

Enough to make eachother chuckle. 

That’s a good start. 

It’s very fascinating the amount of stuff he’s learned from the other in such small span of time. It’s scary how much Tharn has overshared too.

But, all worries are washed down the drain, almost literally, when the rain starts. It feels like a summer shower, only colder. And Tharn’s stupid, musician mind can only fear Type’s flame going away. Which sounds super weird, never say that out loud Tharn.

“How about a movie?”

  
  
  
  
  
  


It’s dreadful. Both living with such a huge pride, and hating horror movies. And also apparently falling for someone who loves the genre. The way Tharn’s eyes opened, revealing thousands of stars in the deepest brown. Type couldn’t find himself to say no to those. 

So there he is, sitting in the middle of an almost empty cinema room, waiting for his date to come back with popcorn, which he paid since he chose the movie. Tharn is a gentleman, that Type will not argue against.

A gentleman with a gentle smile, as he thanks Type for pushing down the seat since Tharn couldn’t do it himself, having both hands and mouth occupied. 

“Good puppy.” Type says as he takes the ticket out of Tharn’s mouth, and helps him set everything on the arms rest.

Only for Tharn to stop in his tracks. 

“Wait, your leg.” The boy says alarmed.

Type follows Tharn’s eyes towards his cast, eyebrow raised as he asks. “What about it?”

“Give me a second.”

A second Type gives, blinking perplexed as Tharn manages to set everything on the empty seat next to him. It’s graceful enough to have Type mesmerized by the movements: lifting the arm rest, gently pulling Type’s legs like an art curator handling an old precious piece; settling it on his lap and then handing Type his popcorn and drink.

It is almost so diverting that Type takes a second too long to realise his feet is on Tharn’s lap.

To be more precise: half his leg is on top of Tharn’s thighs. 

This is about to be the most difficult movie to watch. Not only because of the monsters.

In fact, the monsters are nothing but a white noise, as Type manages to distract himself in Tharn’s touch. His hands never seem to quite leave Type’s leg: whether it be a simple tap following the unsettling rhythm of the music playing in the loudspeakers, or a squeeze when a jumpscare shakes the ground. Hard as he try, Type can’t seem to push the touch in the background.

Not because it bothers him, but because he wants more.

Type wants to be the dumb couple who hold hands in the cinema, hiding his face on Tharn’s neck. This part of him, now suddenly full awake, takes him more by surprise than any scare. Not the touchy feely one, Type was. Not even with his friends. He’s never been fond of affection, not when it’s not necessarily needed.

So, when he readjusts his position, leg a bit more spread, back against the rest; he dares. The tips of his fingers barely brush Tharn’s. And that same feeling from the café blooms once more.

Blooming is not the best way to put it. Flowers bloom once, and then they wither. It’s rather like a blinking star, always shining but sometimes dimmer, sometimes in its fullest. That feeling, whatever Type might want to call it. It’s a newborn star.

“You scared?”

Type takes a quick peek at the screen. The ghost so happens to appear then. How Type manages to hold down his squeal, will remain a mystery.

“No.”

“You said you liked horror movies.”

“I do.”

“Clearly.” Tharn shakes his head, half smile on his lips. And hand lacing with Type’s.

  
  
  


It is rather chilly when they get out of the cinema, the rain has finally stopped but the subsequent cold and air make the city feel like an ice cube. Tharn can see his own breath as he speaks. 

“I’ll drive you home.” 

It’s not really a question, but given the circumstances -- Type swinging in his crutches and the weather -- Tharn doesn’t think there’s any other acceptable option. Which Type sees to agree with, nodding and looking down at the pavement.

Tharn wonders if Type does that out of shyness for being caught lying about the horror movies, or due to his bent position. Regardless, Tharn decides he doesn’t like it, missing those fierce eyes on him already. 

“I can feel you staring, you know?” Type points out looking up, finally. 

He tries to flip his hair out of the way. Honestly, how more endearing can this boy get. Tharn takes a step closer, words dying in his tongue as he simply tugs his hair behind his ear. Not noticing his fond smile until Type reciprocates with one of his own. Always a bit more muted, but there, nonetheless. There for Tharn only.

Possessiveness is a double edged sword, so Tharn doesn’t dwell on it. Instead, he fishes his gloves from the depths of his jacket pockets.

“I knew they would come in handy.” 

“Was that a pun?” It should be worrying how much Type rolls his eyes on the daily.

“You liked it?”

“No.” 

Tharn can see Type’s efforts to not smile, biting down his lip. Oh God, have mercy on him.

Instead, Tharn helps Type lean against himself so he can put on the gloves, a small thank you vibrating through them where their shoulders touch. Tharn chuckles softly as Type flexes his fingers and goes to grab his crutches’ handles again.

“Lead the way.” Type nods at the general direction where Tharn said he parked his car. 

Not really good at following orders, Tharn stays half a step behind Type this time around. Due to the rain and the cold, there are less people outside, so Type doesn’t seem to get frustrated anymore. Therefor, Tharn decides to enjoy the company of the other, slowing down his pace.

They make small talk, not even mentioning the movie, but rather how they have already set up the Christmas lights, how they are different from what they remembered. Type mentioned his dad trying to imitate the lights at home, buying cheap ones at a local store, which ended up exploding half way through the night. Tharn imagines what kind of kid Type might have been for christmas.

“A good one, obviously.” Type answers, giving his date a sideways look. “I’m a good son, always helping around the house, doing my homework.”

“So, you got a lot of presents?” Tharn wonders.

Type just shrugs. “Just one. But my birthday is early in the year, so.” The rest of the sentence is left in the freezing cold.

Tharn places his hand on the small of Type’s back again. Warm from having it in his pocket, Type stretches, looking up and taking a rest from the crutches. They are almost in front of the clothing store again, still, Type seems to either not care or know. 

He’s fully facing Tharn now, which seems to be the sign for Tharn to drop his hand. 

As he does so, Type catches it with his own.

“God…” He sighs, lacing his gloved fingers with Tharn’s. 

“Just Tharn, for now.” He jokes. 

Even though he is expecting Type to hit him with their intertwined hands, the taller laughs, looking down. Tharn manages to catch the free crutch from falling, now Type giggles louder. So does Tharn. The light smoke of their breath mixes as they lean closer, almost chest to chest.

“Our next date will be when I can hold your hand properly, okay?” Type requests.

“That will be in two weeks, though.” Tharn purses his lips into a thin line, one could say it's a sort of a pout.

“Won’t you wait for me?” Type’s tone turns sour.

“Of course I will.”

_ I feel like I’ve been waiting for you all my life anyways. _

“How many times do we have to tell you to get a room?” Techno barks from the entrance of the store.

“You are such a party pooper!” Bow comes right after, pulling Techno back in by the collar and almost choking her own workmate. 

Type rolls his eyes, his hand lingering in the touch as he lets go from Tharn’s hold and goes for his other clutch. Tharn helps him with the grasp, hand where it belongs in the small of his back as he guides Type to cross the street.

  
  
  
  
  


“Every Saturday?”

“Almost.” Tharn answers, stealing a glance at the shotgun seat. “Some weeks we have other stuff to do, but we try to be consistent.”

“And you practice how many times a week?” 

“Mondays to Fridays.” Thran smiles. “I have a tendency to arrive late nowadays, though.”

Type raises his eyebrows. “Why?”

“Gotta buy myself a new wardrobe.” Tharn answers, cheekily. “And say hello to a very cute store worker.”

“A cute worker, huh?” Type laughs, tapping his chin. “Wonder who that might be?”

Tharn shakes his head, the ping of the GPS notification interrupting anything he was going to say. “We’re here.” He points out, and as if a veil has fallen, Tharn can feel the mood change.

“Thanks for today.” Type sounds miniscule, which is a lot to say about someone his height. Holding one knee to his chest, Tharn doesn’t have the heart to scold him for putting his shoe on his car seat.

Tharn will let it go this time. 

“My absolute pleasure.” Tharn kills the engine but leaves the lights and the heat on. 

Maybe he should turn that latter off, because the air in the car is turning heavy, as if the oxygen was now heavier, unable to get to Tharn’s lungs. He wills himself to breathe, however, to not get caught up in the excitement, to not get any hopes. He is not going to do anything Type doesn’t want him to d-

Type kisses him before any rational thought can take form in Tharn’s head. So, his brain goes from override to a mush of sweetness. A chewed gum of a brain that only yearns to kiss Type back. His heart takes over soon enough.

And oh, boy.

Tharn is tasting the mix of salt and coke in Type’s mouth. Tharn’s seat belt hits the door as it withdraws. There’s a stupid arm rest between them, but Tharn can feel Types chest on his. He can feel his own collarbones poke at his beating heart. 

Type’s hands come to cup Tharn’s cheeks as they tilt their head, their kiss deep already, now turning breathless. 

Tharn uses his hold on Type’s waist to push him away, because he can’t die of suffocation. Not when he knows he has an entire life ahead of him to kiss Type whole.

As he lets Type recover from his apparent daze, Tharn places his forehead softly on Type’s. Only when he feels Type’s beat steading he leans in to nuzzle his nose with Type’s. Not only he’s presented with a cute whine from Type, but also blessed with Type smiling and scrunching his nose.

They part once more, and Type is blushing.

Tharn has to physically stop himself from kissing this boy in front of him until they pass out.

“I’ll invite you over, but my roommate is in right now.”

“We’ll have all the time in the world for sleepovers when your leg heals.” Tharn assures him, thumb caressing Type’s arm as he settles back on his seat. 

No one knows for how long they stay there just, dumbly looking at each other, but apparently long enough for Tharn’s brain cells to reshape themselves into some common sense. Tharn remembers he’s using the car’s battery and bolts awake. 

Also because it’s been twenty whole minutes of them just staring.

“Type.”

“Hm?”

“It’s getting late.” Type pouts. “Don’t give me that.” Type opens his eyes in the same way he did to Ae. “I’m getting you out of this car right now.”

Type rolls his eyes, but receives Tharn’s peck anyways. 

Tharn stays parked, engine reved until he sees Type’s silhouette from behind the curtains. He waves at the fabric depriving him from seeing Type, and then leaves with a grin that hurts his cheeks all the way back home.

  
  
  


“You know he can’t see you through the curtains, right?” Champ asks from behind his back. 

Type is waving off the car like a dumbstruck puppy, only when the headlights are nothing but a blink within the traffic, does concience come back to him.

“Champ?” he asks, still not turning to look at his friend.

“Yeah?”

“Can you help me fling myself to bed without fucking up my ankle?”

Type could feel the grimace of pure shock Champ was giving him. “Why?”

“I just kissed Tharn on the first date.” Finally, Type met Champ’s eyes. 

Champ sighed, coming to hold onto the casted ankle, as Type all but threw his body like a deadweight into the mattress. And proceeded to muffle his jolly screams on it.

  
  
  
  
  


A weird limp is all that’s left after a week and a half of diligent rehabilitation, rest, and whining at whoever has been willing to listen. Complaining should be a sport, or a language on its own, so Type could put it as his main ability on his resume. 

It’s after a quick goodbye on his porch, Type takes a very indulging second to bask on the smell of Tharn’s burrowed scarf, currently wrapped around his neck. Caring as it was his nature, Tharn hand wrapped it on their way back from Type’s check up.

Looking at the elevator’s mirror, Type sees that stupid face again returning his gaze. That face of puppy love, of easy blushes and wondering eyes. He tries to shake it off, look away. Only for it to return when the doors slide open.

Once inside his apartment, Type wonders how he managed to not trip and fall on his bad leg all over again. 

The sight is puzzling in how familiar it is: it’s been almost a year since the same situation, and taken aback doesn’t begin to cover Type’s state.

“Mum?”

After fuzzing around his sick and recovering child, the woman sets Type on the bed, all while streaming out words of pure adoration. 

“You look skinnier, are you sure you are eating enough? Doesn’t your shoulder hurt from the crutches? Who gave you those gloves? Give me, where should I put them?”

It’s almost ridiculous how many of those question have Tharn as part of the answer. Type doesn’t realise he is smiling again until his mother stops in her tracks, the podrige she has poured for his son, steaming up her face.

Type meets her eye, but remains silent. She sighs, a fond expression adorning her aging face. It is a known fact within the family and their closests friends that Type’s mom was a beauty to behold back in the day. In Type’s eyes, she is still the most beautiful woman to ever graze the earth. Even more so with that calm expression on her features, her caring hands caressing Type’s cheek as he takes the first spoonful of food.

A comfortable silence falls between them, Type slurpring disrupts it every now and then. However, the most unsettling thing, is the sudden mood change when Type is half done with his dinner. Like the night has shifted into a limbo stage, Type feels uneasy as he studies his mother’s features. 

Her smile hasn’t even wavered, her eyes blink away the everlasting sleepness of adult life, her wrinkles that will soon bloom on Type’s own face, everything is just bringing Type back to a comfortable place. 

It all comes together: Type on the bed, mom sitting beside him, waiting for him to finish his meal, silence and the night unfolds into a soft vals.

She knows.

That’s the thought that yells the loudest amidst the screamfest in Type’s brain. A situation very common due to his overanalyzing nature. 

It leaves him breathless. It knots his stomach into an impossible tangle. Type puts the plate aside. His mother knows, somehow, and she is waiting.

“Uh.” He cleverly starts. “Mom?”

“Yes, my child?” 

“Why are you here?” Type knows his mother is not that patient, but he hopes she’ll understand the gravity of this situation.

“To check on my clumsy offspring, who apparently hasn’t been eating his meals and now won’t finish mine.” 

In case anyone wonders where Type’s quick wit comes from. He lowers his spoon, his gaze focused on the splotches of rice.

“No, like why are you here?”

“Let’s cut the chase, then.” She sits upright, her face tightening. “Type, we love you no matter what, you are our son and we are so proud of y-”

“How?” 

Type didn’t mean to yell, he really wanted to control his tone and be rational about everything that’s about to happen. He wants his mother to know he is serious about this, that Tharn isn’t just some type of fling, a trend, or a joke. Type wants to be clear and upfront. Like he always has.

So he takes a deep breath, calming his breathing to speak softly. “How do you know?” 

She lets out a small airy laugh and scoots closer. At arm's length, she takes a good look at his child, and Type awaits. His breathing stutters a couple of times, but before he can open his mouth to insist, his mother is hugging him.

A mom hug.

Those that heal every wound. 

Type melts into it. 

“I like men.” He whispers against his mom’s shoulder. 

“I know, my sweet boy.” 

“I have a boyfriend.” The sobs come out from a tightened throat, his voice strained. 

“I know that too, Type.” She turns slightly to kiss his temple. “My amazing son, the apple of my eyes.” She says between kisses. “My pride and joy, I know.”

“Will dad be mad?” Type feels the wetness of his own tears soaking into her mother’s clothes.

“He won’t, my darling, he loves you so much.” She reassures her son, rubbing Type’s back affectionately. “As long as he is good to you, we will welcome him.”

“His name is Tharn.” Type says as he pulls back, sniffling the last tears away. “And we’ve been together for a few weeks but, I really really like him, mom.”

“I could tell by the way you kissed him inside of the car, Type.” She teases nudging Type’s side. “You kids have no shame.”

“Why would I?” Type replies petulantly. “He’s my boyfriend, I should be allowed to kiss him wherever.” 

Crossing his arms, Type pulls his most childish pout, making his mother chuckle as she comes in to grab Type’s arm. After a few tugs, she manages to get a hold on Type’s hand, caressing his knuckles before covering them with her free hand.

“You know me and your dad we...we are so proud of you, Type.” The son sniffs the remaining tears away. “Don’t worry too much about your old folks, not because of this.” She pats his hand tenderly. “And don’t be afraid, ever. You hear me? Remember what your dad taught you?”

“Don’t be afraid of life. Living is a gift you only receive once, living in fear is like kicking someone for giving you a present.” Type smirks at the potty word he learned when he was small. “Live and respect every creature. Love and be grateful.”

“That’s my son.” She says, the prideful tone floods her voice and her face as he pulls Type for another hug. “Now, you have to tell me everything about my soon to be son-in-law.”

“Mom!” Type whines. “Son-in-law my ass.”

She smacked his arm at the last remark, making him remind her how he is still injured. She seems to wave it off as she lays beside her son, scrolling through pictures, listening as Type recalls how they met, how Tharn is driving from and to rehabilitation and their first date.

Not even eleven o’clock, Type is fast asleep, missing his mom kissing his forehead good night, putting the remaining porridge in the fridge and leaving a small encouraging note by the bedside table. 

  
  
  
  
  


Thran is visibly nervous. 

They are standing in front of the bar Tharn and his band play weekly. It’s just a few hours. From acoustic, to instrumental, to a full on concert by the end. Needless to say, it’s exhausting and nerve wracking, and every single night there’s a bandmate asking for a raincheck. It’s almost like a tradition at this point.

Tonight, however, Tharn just looks at Type, sees the neon reflecting in his dark brown eyes and tries to smile. The last thing he wants is to worry his boyfriend. Because Type worries, in a very aggressive old aunt type of way, but he does. 

There’s a hand on his as Tharn fishes his phone out of his pocket. Eyes fumble from the notifications to Type’s eyes. Keeping eye contact with him is getting more and more difficult since Type’s posture is going back to normal. It’s not a bad thing, nothing fuels Tharn more than the thought of this tall man wrapping himself around him.

To cuddle.

Pure thoughts, Tharn. Pure thoughts.

“Now, this is what I’m talking about.” Type says like a man who has just hiked up a mountain.

Tharn blinks confusedly.

As Type raises their joined hands in the air, Tharn’s smile grows in crescendo. His eyes crinkled into crescents by the time he is leaning in to steal a kiss from his boyfriend. 

“Didn’t take you for a PDA kind of guy.” Tharn confesses as he bounces back on his feet.

“I am not. I just really like your hands.” Type looks away. How adorable is he that even after a month together, he can’t deal with sweet talk? “Y-Your fingers.”

“Fit right between yours, don’t they?” Tharn teases, interwinding their fingers.

“I am honestly going to throw up at this rate.” Tum groans from somewhere behind them, up the stairs leading to the bar. 

“Wait you're not going to do the sound check?” Asks Type maybe a little too loud, as if he has to prove he’s done his research on the matter.

Tharn looks at him fondly, caressing his thumb over his knuckles as he replies. “We are going to be here all night and we start at nine. “We eat first.”

And that seems to settle it. 

There’s so many lucky stars Tharn can type, and even them wouldn’t be enough for him to believe he scored a boyfriend as Type. He whines, nags, is loud, impulsive and sometimes even aggressive. Yet, he holds Tharn’s hand like it’s his second nature, his eyes sparkle when Tharn talks, and he takes interest in what’s undoubtedly Tharn’s biggest passion.

What’s not to love.

Even if they sulk, if they bicker. Tharn could never stay mad at Type. And Type couldn’t go half a day without kisses. 

“Babe, you are staring.” One month into the relationship and they are on petname’s basis. Tharn is delighted.

Acting defeated, Tharn smirks down on his food. Toys with it until the focus isn’t on them anymore. Then Tharn looks up again, scooping something out of his plate. “And the spicy meatball for my spicy meatball.”

Type pinches his shoulder but does nothing to stop Tharn from placing the aforementioned meatball in his plate. “You are so annoying.”

Tharn sends him an air kiss while Tum and the band take turns to fake gag at them. 

As the atmosphere settles down into a common get together, Tharn watches in delight as his friends seem to take a liking in Type. They are talking about the most mundane things, which is exactly their routine before hitting the stage. It feels almost unnatural how well Type fits in, even if Song asks too many questions about them getting together; Type manages to shrug them off.

Before desserts are served, Tharn sneaks his hand on Type’s thigh, earning a judging look from his boyfriend.

“So, this a thing now?” Type asks in his teasing tone, eyebrow raised.

Tharn is about to apologize and withdraw his hand when a weight stills him. The blush in his cheeks, dusting all the way to his ears, could be blamed to that simple gesture. But, Tharn wants to believe he is just overheating in Type’s warmth.

  
  
  
  


“Santa?” 

Type is still trying to recover from the laughter that has bent him over not even two minutes ago. The concert was going fantastic. Each song was better than the last, and Type didn’t want to seem too impressed with Tharn’s band, yet, he is. Talent coursed through the cables to the amplifiers, the whole place buzzing along the music. Perhaps he is biased, but the drum’s solo had to be the best piece of music Type had ever listened to.

The whole bar erupted into something Type couldn’t properly describe. He likes music, like the boy next door, like everyone in this world. Yet, he could have never imagined he would be transported like that. It was Tharn’s face, what did it. Peaceful and still focused. Enjoying every beat, making every note his, becoming one with the drums and cymbals. Like Tharn was no longer a being but a blended melody blasting through the speakers.

Seeing Tharn in his element, made Type feel light headed. And so very much in love. 

The fact that Tharn is sharing with him something like music, something he holds so dear, might have been enough to make him cry.

But Type doesn’t cry, instead he admires Tharn sitting behind his drum set.

His heart beating frantically through out the solo, only slowing down when Tharn’s eyes found his. Type had seen that expression before, in the confines of the night, when Tharn would hold him, lips red and sore, hands under his shirt. 

Type wanted to move, wanted to rush onto the stage and gather Tharn in his hold, wanted to kiss him until there was nothing left. Until he forgot his own name. 

The second Type’s feet decide to move, the daze broke. Song patted Tharn on the back and the drummer bent to pick up his water bottle. When he came back, sitting straight up, he was wearing a santa hat.

Sweat still trickled own his handsome face, now caught in the fake white fur.

Tharn winked at Type, and he lost it. Laughing his mind out as the rest of the band followed suit with reindeer headbands, red noses and all the works.

Then, a sudden familiar set of chords played from Song’s electric guitar. 

And proceeding to sing a very lewd version of Jingle Bell Rock. Which only made Type laugh harder, feeling like he couldn’t catch his breath.

The gig was over but Type couldn’t stop his laughing fit. Not even after the band had picked up their stuff, and Tharn had found him in the crowd.

“Merry Christmas?” Tharn offers, arms wrapping around Type’s middle.

The taller is leaning against a wall, his weight mostly against the surface so he doesn’t have to rely on his still healing ankle. Sometimes he still feels the shadowy weight of the cast. 

Music plays in the background. The bar turning into a club right after Tharn’s bands gig. Couple crowd the dance floor, the DJ playing some christmas songs with a booming bass underneath. It seems to do the trick for everyone.

Except Type, who chooses to lose himself on Tharn’s eyes again.

Tipping his head to the side, eyes downcasted to Tharn’s lips, then back up again to return the gaze, Type tries to tease over the music. “Does this mean I get to sit on your lap?”

If there was any space between them, Tharn annihilates it by stepping closer, chest against chest. He turns his head to kiss Type’s wrist, currently resting on Tharn’s shoulders. Type has a bit of a fixation with Tharn’s hair, but you will never see Tharn complain about it. 

“Only if you’ve been a good boy.”

  
  
  
  


Tharn barely manages to finish his sentence before his lips meet Type’s. Which part almost immediately into a heated kiss. A very heated kiss. A kiss that could bring them so trouble anywhere else. Thank all heavens Tharn knew the owners of the bar. So he presses closer, Type’s back fully against the wall, trapping him in. Tharn feels Type melting in the way his hands can’t seem to find purchase anywhere. 

This is extasis.

Only when Type nudges Tharn’s legs apart, does Tharn pull away. Much to Type’s dismay.

“What’s wrong?”

Nothing. Honestly, nothing’s wrong what they were doing. Nothing at all. They are just literally the definition of public indecency, but yeah. Nothing’s wrong at all.

Tharn contemplates his answer: on one hand, he really wants this. Like, my god. He really wants Type on his lap for the rest of the night. He wants to hold Type against his chest and kiss sweet nothings on his jaw. 

On the other hand, Type might not be ready. Hell, the both of them might not be ready. It truly isn’t healthy to put a pace on a relationship, to reinforce some sort of schedule that events should fall into. Time shouldn’t be a concept in a relationship.

“Tharn.” 

Type calls before Tharn’s mind goes on override. “Hm?”

“Take me to your place.”

Time shouldn’t be a concept at all, Tharn concludes, as he kisses Type one last time, and mentally calculates how long they will take from the bar to his place. And if he will be able to hold on that long.

  
  
  


He does. 

Tharn manages to hold on until Type steps past the threshold of Tharn’s apartment. He’s been there before. They cuddled while watching stupid Christmas movies, laughing at the names of the characters and overall corniness. And perhaps made out until Type fell asleep. 

Besides the point.

Tharn is barely closing the door when Type comes into his space again, hands cupping his cheeks. Their teeth clash at first, it’s not painful as much as it’s silly. It manages to rip a chuckle out of Type, the breath Tharn needs to just admire his boyfriend. For the nth time that night.

He can’t bare it.

It’s too much.

Tharn has always been curious. He once wondered how would it feel to touch lava, to be able to hold flames in his hands.

Maybe it was time to find out.

Type is giggling when Tharn pulls him up, holding him above the ground by the grip on Type’s middle. Tharn can hear every single sound ramble in Type’s ribcage, as he presses his ear against his chest. Carrying Type is fun and all, nothing he’s never done before, however this time around he twirls him around, dips him a little just to entice more sounds from him.

“Cut it out!” Type finally says, trying to calm down from his giggles.

Only then Tharn looks up, marveled at how Type looks back, smile still high on his cheeks, gums still showing in delight.

Lowering Type on the bed feels way beyond intimate. It’s a sort of offering, it feels sacred. Tharn lets himself take a second, Type allows it too by the way his hands just travel up and down Tharn’s thighs. The air stops moving, the whole universe puts a cease to its expansion, until Tharn’s desire finally kicks in.

Type wraps both arms and legs around Tharn when they kiss again. Everything now speeding up. There’s limbs thrown upwards and clothing thrown down the bed. There’re bites left like littering wildflowers on a pathway. They bloom red and some even purpleish.

The contrast against Type’s skin is too beautiful to compare. 

Only Type’s underpants remain, and yet it seems like a hard limit. Like something that needs more than the nods Type has been giving him throughout.

“Hey.” Tharn calls.

And Type sighs. “You know?” Type tilts his head. “This was the first thing you said to me.”

  
  
  


Type smiles at his boyfriend’s perplexion. Tharn’s eyes are like two little bugs, flying about and all over him. His hands cup Tharn’s cheeks to ground him. 

Something Type loves about Tharn was his straightforwardness, they both had honesty best policy as their motto, as well as being direct and rather than beating around the bust they just cut the bush open and were frank with their feelings. However, it was still surprising how Tharn would overthink issues that weren’t even worth wasting a second on.

For example how much Type wanted this. How much Type wanted to be kissed and held and feel loved by the man that made his heart feel like it belonged. Like it wasn’t just a mere muscle. Like it had a purpose.

So, Type takes over once more. He’s happy to guide his boyfriend when he gets distracted by his own thoughts.

Tharn is kissing him back in no time, one hand supporting him, the other Type finds wrapped around his wrist. A mere touch, not demanding. Not rushing him.

“I think you had me under your spell ever since then.” Type confesses, voice rouch from the night. But, mostly because of the relentless kissing, the laughter. 

His thumb caresses Tharn’s cheekbones, down his cheek, towards his lip. Type pokes his lower lip a little, and remembers the first time he saw a very handsome customer step into the store. He remembers falling for that deep, teal water voice, those lips when they curled in a smile. Those eyes holding the whole galaxy.

  
  


Tharn is speechless.

He can’t point out when exactly he fell for Type. Maybe it was all at once, maybe it was a progress. A bit more in each heart beat, carrying those new cells that had met Type, and knew they loved him. Maybe, it was at the store.

Or at the café with his leg on a chair.

Or when he held Tharn’s hand at the movies.

Or when they went to cheer on Type’s college team. Tharn’s scarf wrapped around Type’s neck, all the way to his chin. Each word staining the air with the smoke of warm breath against December saturdays. How Type’s eyes would never stop smiling, how his voice would call out for his teammates, and then to Tharn. How he had hugged him when they won, how unabashedly happy he was. 

Or maybe it was when they first kissed.

Type kisses him again and uses their now interlocked hands to bring Tharn’s fingers towards his hip, where the hem of Type’s underwear rest. 

Still, Tharn looks up. Even if Type has practically confessed to him, there is no way he’s doing anything without verbal permission.

He hooks his fingers on Type’s underwear. “You sure?” Type nods, nails softly raking from Tharn’s nape to his shoulder blades. 

“Yes.” Of course Type arches his brow, his teasing tone surfacing even when lust clouds his eyes. “Are you?”

“As sure as like you’ve always had me under your spell.”

Type giggles onto the kiss, lifting his hips as Tharn drags his underwear down. 

There’s a lot of talking after that. Communication so heated and sweet Tharn thinks he’s having a fever dream. Type wraps around him like an ancient master had sculped them together, but due to time they had been separated. Like they’ve always belonged like this. Type arms around his neck. Tharn’s hands on his thighs.

And finally, together, while Type moaned and whined and Tharn grunted; they managed to break time. To stop the universe one more time, to completely eradicate the notion of anything but each other.

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> hello!! thank you so much for reading this long mess of fluff! i hope you enjoyed your ride! i'm sorry about the rushed ending i really don't know how to finish my fics ill try to work on it :(( anyways thanks again!!


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